


herr charmerende

by pensee



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Rejseholdet | Unit One
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Lust at First Sight, Morning After, Not Canon Compliant, Reader-Insert, Sweet Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23901754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: “Miss, have you seen this man?” another voice says, and you start, having to turn once more and look up at the man it belongs to.He’s clearly run as fast and as hard as the cops from before, but as he holds up his police ID and a poorly photographed cell phone picture of the man in the orange jumper, you think he’s probably making fun of you, his colleagues, or both.The spectacle in Hansen’s has drawn the attention of a small crowd, and there’s no way he’s missed the fact that his suspect’s already been caught and arrested.“Fischer, with Rejseholdet?” you say, mangling the pronunciation, and he smiles.-You're in Copenhagen for a new job, and you happen to run into Detective Allan Fischer while you're out for a stroll.
Relationships: Allan Fischer/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	herr charmerende

**Author's Note:**

> I used this title because “one night stand” is so overused and “fuck and run” just seemed redundant. 
> 
> Jeg snakker ikke dansk. So undskyld if this is way off base. <3 Title should translate to “Mr. Charming.” 
> 
> For a very special person, ily bb. <3

You’re strolling down an avenue whose name you can’t hope to pronounce, getting your fill of what your new life in Copenhagen was going to be like for the foreseeable future. You’d always wanted to explore Scandinavia, and when a friend from a publishing house with offices in Nyhavn had offered you an interview there, you couldn’t resist. 

Tired of your job in Paris, you had jumped at the opportunity when the publishing house had offered you a full-time position as a staff illustrator, with a focus on both traditional and digital art. You did not know the first thing about  _ digital _ art, but for a position in a city you’d always dreamed of visiting, any growing pains from learning the proper methods would be worthwhile. 

Enjoying your midday walk, you’re not paying attention when a man in a neon orange jumper sprints past you, narrowly missing your bag, which sways as he runs past. 

“Fucker,” you say in English, but not loud enough to be heard, you hope.

“Stop! Ugh, this fucking  _ asshole _ ,” you hear a voice say in Danish, and let out a tiny yelp as two uniformed politi, a man and a woman with her hair up in a tight bun, cage you in on either side for a moment. You realize that they’re chasing the man in the orange jumper, and turn to watch them pursue him into Hansen’s, unable to hold back a laugh as he knocks down clothing racks and mannequins in the window in his scramble to get away. 

The female cop gets him in a wrist lock and shoves a knee into his back, and it looks like he curses at her before she pushes his head down, her partner helping cuff him as he spits and squirms. 

“Miss, have you seen this man?” another voice says, and you start, having to turn once more and look up at the man it belongs to. 

He’s clearly run as fast and as hard as the cops from before, but as he holds up his police ID and a poorly photographed cell phone picture of the man in the orange jumper, you think he’s probably making fun of you, his colleagues, or both.

The spectacle in Hansen’s has drawn the attention of a small crowd, and there’s no way he’s missed the fact that his suspect’s already been caught and arrested. 

“Fischer, with Rejseholdet?” you say, mangling the pronunciation, and he smiles, starts again in English. 

“Unit One, it’s like--what would they call it--CID.”

“Oh, you’re a detective, of course,” you say, feeling silly you hadn’t caught on earlier. 

“So,” he says, playing with you. “Have you seen him? Wearing an ugly orange jumper, too.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “You can obviously see he’s right behind us in that store. With your friends.”

“You must be pulling my leg, I don’t see anyone.”

His grin is sharp-toothed, and you swallow, your face heating. How are you supposed to reason with someone who’s unreasonable? 

“Fine, then I haven’t seen anyone,” you say, because it’s what he wants you to, and your flush deepens, when you think about your logic behind  _ that _ . 

“Well, now I know you must be joking. He’s right there, just like you said before, I see that now. It’s against the law to lie to a cop.”

“I wasn’t lying!” you say, and he laughs. 

You’re delighting him more than discouraging, and you hum helplessly as he says, “Maybe I should handcuff you and take you in. For further questioning, isn’t that what they say on TV?”

“How would I know?!” you ask, as if you haven’t consumed every procedural cop show and true crime documentary known to man, though there’s no way he could possibly know… 

“We could talk about it more over dinner,” he says, too smooth. 

“Fischer, come on,” the male uniform says. “We’ve got to process him.”

Then, something in Danish that must be “ _ stop flirting” _ . 

“Not until I get her number. Not until I get your number,” he says, and your mouth flaps open and shut for a beat before you hold an incredulous hand out for his cell phone, which you dutifully call yourself on, hearing your own mobile vibrate in your bag.

“Are you happy, Detective Fischer?” 

“Oh, I’m very happy, love,” he smiles. 

  
  
  
  


You swore to yourself when you left Paris that you would never again wait by the phone for anyone to call, but you find yourself waiting for Detective Allan Fischer anyway, regardless of the fact that you were sure he wasn’t going to call. But as soon as 18:30 rolls around, your phone rings, and you answer with baited breath, biting the inside of your cheek as you hear that familiar voice asking if you’re doing anything fun tonight. 

_ You _ , you want to scream,  _ I wanna do you _ !

But that would be odd. Even more odd than asking a stranger you met chasing down a perp for dinner...right? 

Lost in your own head, you almost miss him asking you to a nearby bar, and by the time you’ve said yes and hung up, you’ve already started stressing over what to wear, biting your lip as you go through the few date-worthy items in your closet. 

You go with a plain little black dress and modest heels, since you don’t want to fall over if you get tipsy. But you want to look sexy for him, and hope your choice pays off. Judging by the appreciative looks you get as curious eyes turn to you as you walk into the bar, you think that he’ll be impressed. 

After sitting there for about a minute and wondering if you’re overager by showing up ten minutes early, he saunters in wearing a leather jacket and slacks, just this side of casual. You feel a bit overdressed, and must say so aloud, because he puts a reassuring hand on your waist and calls you beautiful. 

You pretend you don't know what he's talking about. Beautiful, who, you? 

But he whispers it in your ear again, his accent making the word sound even more exotic, and you shiver in pleasure. God, this wasn't appropriate, going crazy over a guy in public like this. Thank God he gives you a bit of reprieve, drawing back and promising to take advantage of what this place has to offer, gesturing to the extensive drink menu overhead. 

He orders drinks for both of you, and although it's a crowded bar and everything's loud and there is a crush of people around you, he somehow gets the bartender's attention. The pint he hands you is of a stout that's so strong it makes your eyes water a little, but you gulp it down and listen to him talk to you about his day at work, chasing down bad guys and even the less exciting parts, like all the paperwork that came after. 

You can tell he's a lot of male bravado, but God help you, it's cute instead of douchey, and you decide to tease him a bit, asking him more about the perp he chased down earlier today. 

You run your foot along the inside of his calf and he notices and smiles, traps your foot between two of his own, and then redirects it back to your side of the booth he’d managed to snag from a couple who stepped out for a bit of fresh air and a smoke.

"Footsie is cute, baby, but I’m not an exhibitionist," he tells you, and you smirk to hide your blush.

"You're turning red," he says, grinning and taking a cigarette out from a pack he pulls out of his jacket. "Want one? Might help you calm down." 

You glare at him, but it doesn't last long. 

"Okay, fine," you huff, trying not to let your expression show how flattered you are as he lights your cig for you like you're a movie starlet or something.

"But I’m already calm," you say, lying a little as you awkwardly cross your legs. He didn't quite rebuff you cold when he’d stopped you teasing him, but the atmosphere is a bit less sexy than it was a minute ago. 

He fixes it a second later, downing about half his beer like it's nothing, and asks you about yourself, holding his cigarette like a leading man in a film, smoke swirling about your heads. You remind yourself to stop staring long enough to form a coherent answer. 

"You're an artist, huh?" he says. "I never could pick up a pencil for anything other than reports." 

You almost blurt out that you could teach him to draw, as silly as that sounds.

"Speaking of reports, I’ve got a hell of a lot to turn in tomorrow morning, so I’ve gotta make it an early night." 

You're almost disappointed--a terrifying amount, in fact--until he adds, "Where's your flat?"

"I’m not taking you to my flat. If I did, you’d just fuck and run tomorrow morning. I’m going over to  _ yours _ if you expect to get anything from me tonight," you say, trying to sound confident. 

"Fuck and run," he scoffs. "Well, you're certain of yourself.”

_ I could say the same about you. _

“I’ll bet the next round you'll give in to me going back to yours by the end of the hour."

You raise a brow. 

"Next round? Thought you had to be up early." 

He smirks. "Never let it be said I’d pass up a drink with a beautiful woman." 

  
  
  
  


Danish men must be different from most others, you think. They were much better at convincing you to do things than the losers you had left behind in Paris. 

The bastard was right about going back to yours, of course, you struggling to get your front door open as he kisses at your neck, gropes you all over as your shaking hands find the key. 

He's drunk and even smells a bit of booze, but he's hard against you, evidently used to drinking hard and fucking harder soon after. There'd been more than two rounds, but you're still clear-headed, surprisingly so as you get the door open and don't bother turning on any of the lights. 

Your knees hit the bed after a bit of fumbling around in the dark, the breath knocked from you as he spreads you out over the mattress and kisses you till your eyes roll back in your head. 

He undoes the side zip on your dress, helps you pull it over your head, and you don't even complain when you hear his belt hit the floor and not much else after that besides his leather jacket. 

Never let it be said that  _ you  _ weren’t interested in being fucked by a gorgeous fully-clothed man who could hold his drink and call you _ beautiful _ in the same breath. 

"Don't fuck and run," you joke, hoping he somehow responds to the note of seriousness in your voice."

“Hush," he tells you, and kisses you again.

He's got a condom, thank God, the wrapper tossed on your nightstand maybe, and you're wet enough for him that he doesn't even tease you with his fingers or mouth first. Maybe you would've appreciated that as foreplay, but you can't even think about it when he's lifting your legs over his shoulders and driving into you. 

He's thick, so thick you feel entirely too full with it, and that must be a drunken illusion, but maybe it's not, because he's muttering about how tight you are, how perfect your pussy is. Or that must be what he's saying, you think, listening to a jumble of English and Danish that fades to a handful of bearish grunts as his hips collide with your skin. 

It feels too sensitive everywhere, and you whimper as he plucks at one peaked nipple, then another. You're glad you hadn't worn a bra earlier, allowing for easier access to his greedy hands now. 

"Fuck me, please fuck me, oh my God..."

"Such a dirty mouth for a pretty girl," he says, and you can taste his smirk as he nips at your neck. 

"W-who says pretty girls can't--oh, God--can't cuss like sailors." 

He chuckles, low and deep. 

"Not me, baby."

"T-that's right," you say, although it doesn't sound like you've won anything or made any particular point, because he pulls out of you only to turn you over onto your hands and knees and push back in without preamble. 

"Oh fuck!"

He feels even deeper into you this way, and you rub frantic fingers against your clit, barely balanced on your other hand as he fucks in and out of you, both of you moaning in soft chorus.

It goes on like this for ten minutes or twenty or an hour, you don't know, except for the earth-shattering sob you let out when you finally come on his cock, muscles shuddering around him as he bites at your shoulder and fucks in again, hips jerking as he rides your orgasm out and tumbles into his own.

He pulls out of you and, still panting, ties the condom off. You hear it plop into the nearby bin, and hear his belt buckle clink, reaching for the lamp to turn it on, bemoaning the fact that you weren't able to actually see him hovering over you when he was pounding into you with your legs over his shoulders.

"Honey, I’m--," he says, not looking sorry at all, and you cross your arms over your naked chest. You hadn’t thought he’d cuddle for hours after, but you hadn’t thought he’d leave  _ literally _ right after you fucked. 

"Fine, you can go. I guess I was expecting this." 

You draw your legs up to yourself, flashing him a bit of the wetness still between your legs, and he runs his tongue over his teeth.

"If you wanna stay, you're welcome to join me in the shower. If not, you have my number."

He looks like he's about to say something, but instead starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, tossing his leather coat aside. 

"You're a bossy little one, aren't you," he says, and your eyes go wide to yourself as he crowds behind you in the tiny shower stall, his half-hard cock pressing between your cheeks. 

"Sorry about that, there’s no room in here," he lies, and you can't help but giggle, though it turns to a moan as he rubs himself against your ass.

You smack him away, but think:  _ How many condoms does he have in his wallet anyway? _

  
  
  
  


He has five, you learn later, after he takes out a second to fuck you again, you looking into his eyes like something in a ridiculous romantic music video, although he doesn't look anywhere but at you the entire time.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest, thinking that at least this way he won’t be able to sneak out in the middle of the night without you knowing. 

The next morning, you wake up in bed alone, and smother a disappointed groan into your pillow, until you smell the aroma of fresh coffee brewing in the small kitchen.

“I didn't know how you took your eggs, but I made toast. I can't fucking cook for the life of me," he says, and you shoot upright in bed, mindful of how your hair must be sticking up in all directions and the slight headache you're nursing from the drinks last night.

"You didn't just fuck and run," you say, disbelieving, and he gives you a look, like him staying over was his idea all along. 

_ Ugh, men. _

"I'm more of a gentleman than that," he says, and you hum skeptically. 

"Come on," he says, then your name in that fucking gorgeous voice, and you have no choice but to cave.

"Alright, godmorgen, Detective Fischer," you say, and get up and out of bed. 

_ Huh _ , you think, looking at the handsome man in your apartment and the modest breakfast that was honestly better than what you could have come up with on such short notice.

You relish that you don't have a completely dreadful hangover and that he somehow had the courtesy to pick up your little black dress and hang it over a chair, and don’t even begrudge the fact that he asks you to pour coffee for him because he doesn’t begrudge  _ you  _ giving him a little kiss on the temple as he looks over the paper and his phone, no doubt checking up on updates about his cases. 

“Thanks, skat,” he says, when you set down his mug, and you feel yourself flush again as he pushes a plate of sausage and toast towards you, a genuine smile on his face when you admit that no one’s ever really done the whole morning-after breakfast thing for you. 

“Get used to it, because I’ve got your number now,” he says, and you bite your lip, trying to hide your answering grin.

“Guess you do,” you say, trying to sound unaffected and failing. 

_ Well, _ you think, feeling more excited about this than you’ve felt about anything in a long time.  _ This day was shaping up to have a pretty great start. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you also enjoy reader-insert, Rejseholdet, HEU, or anything Mads Mikkelsen-related, please find me on Twitter @penseeart, where I only talk about Mads, 24/7.


End file.
